


And All Paths Will Lead Us Home

by nereidee (aurasama)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Eighty years is a long time to be separated from someone, First Time, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurasama/pseuds/nereidee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.” - Stephanie Perkins</p><p>Bilbo Baggins had outlived even the Old Took by the time he embarked the ship in Grey Havens bound for the Undying Lands, thinking it to be his one, final adventure. But hobbits are, in the end, mortal creatures, and even Bilbo was fated to pass away eventually, thus finding himself at the beginning of yet another journey - and reuniting with a person he'd long since given up on ever meeting again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All Paths Will Lead Us Home

The first thing Bilbo Baggins became aware of was a draft of warm air pleasantly caressing his face. It billowed his hair gently, a stray curl tickling his skin and he wiggled his nose, scratching at the itch absently. He didn't feel the slightest bit eager to get out of his comfortable bed just yet, not when he was so very warm lying there, but the brightness behind his closed lids suggested it must be about time for a proper hobbit to get something small to nibble at, preferably combined with a cup of warm milk tea sweetened with honey.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking once, twice, trying to get accustomed to the brightness of the room he was in. He sat up rather gingerly, trying to mind his aching back, except he found he did not, truthfully, ache anywhere in particular; his body was light to lift, his bones not protesting to the movement in the slightest, and his arms felt stronger then he could recall them being in many a long year, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed as effortlessly as though he were a mere tween again.

Long, thin curtains of white were drawn in front of a high, strangely curved window, though the room was bathed in the sort of soft, golden light that reminded him of the long autumn evenings in Rivendell - almost, but not quite the same. A light breeze played with the curtains and ruffled his hair gently, and he got up, walking to the window. Behind the almost transparent fabric opened an odd landscape, unfamiliar to him, but he found this did not concern him as it ought to have, and when he lifted his arms to pull the curtains apart for a better look, he found himself staring at much smoother hands than he remembered having.

Slowly, he lifted his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers. Gone were the creaking joints and the pains brought by a long lifetime of writing, his skin soft and unspotted and altogether much too smooth to be his but gracious, if they were not his, then whose body was this?

"Most peculiar," he mused out loud, and even his voice sounded different to his ears. Or was he perhaps imagining it all? He glanced out of the window and was greeted again by a landscape so fair that he had never seen anything like it during his long, long years. Far away, a sea glittered and swayed slowly, though he could not quite make out where was the light coming from that so gently reflected from the water. Surely, the sun was high up in the sky but the light cast by the day star came at an odd angle, as though it were late in the evening, and too close it seemed, somehow, the light of it much too bright and casting great black shadows all over the landscape. Buildings tall and fair, their stonework sturdy yet all light loveliness that all but seemed to breathe life, and beautiful curved bridges crossing high above what seemed to be gardens, gardens much lovelier than those in the Shire or even than those that he had seen in Valinor itself. Even the air seemed to have an odd quality about it - a refreshing breeze that passed effortlessly through this room and seemed to carry soft whispering voices in it or perhaps the echoes of a distant song, but in what language, he did not know.

It felt as though he'd never grow tired of the view in front of his curious hobbit eyes, but finally, after a long, lingering while, he tore himself away from the window. He looked around and saw that the room was empty but for the bed he had awoken in, and even that looked strangely much like it had not been slept in at all. "But I did wake up there just now, didn't I?" he wondered, and the next thought he had was if his clothes were full of wrinkles from tossing and turning restlessly in the sheets, and what exactly had he been wearing again when he'd turned in for the night before?

Try as he might, however, he could not remember exactly what he'd been wearing, or when and where had he laid down before. He was quite certain there had been talking; yes, they talked very much in the evenings, he and Frodo, and hadn't the lad just told him of some of the things he'd written for his book? Perhaps they had even sung together, as they so often had done? But no precise memory came to him, and with a small sigh he accepted that his memory was perhaps not what it had been in his youth. That was when he noticed the waistcoat he was wearing.

Bemused, he touched the smooth, skilfully patterned fabric and the small, spotlessly clean brass buttons that gleamed in the golden light. "How odd," Bilbo said finally. "This looks exactly like my very favourite waistcoat! Only, I'm certain I never took it with me when I left Bag End to dear Frodo."

He felt his gaze drawn to the strange patterns on the walls, patterns that upon closer inspection were not patterns at all but small, perfectly square windows, hundreds of them, arranged side by side to form what distantly reminded him of dwarven runes, but more intricate. The blocky designs filled the walls on all sides, casting strange shadows into the otherwise sunlit room. Bilbo wondered whether they were some form of writing, for they varied from one another slightly.

Frowning, he decided he could not stay in that room any longer and expect to become any the wiser while thinking all these strange things by himself. Surely, such a large, beautiful place would be bustling with people, and it just would not do to stay holed indoors on such a wondrous day, not when it seemed like it could be closer to sundown already. "Bilbo Baggins, what ever shall they think of a hobbit who sleeps right through his meal times and only wakes late in the afternoon? Why, there will be no end to Gandalf's teasing after this - to think I've missed even luncheon!"

And with that, he walked out of the room.

He could no longer pretend that something was very much amiss here; his feet carried him much more steadily than they had done in years and his back was not bent with old age and exhaustion. The brisk pace he walked took him easily across a long, winding corridor adorned with even more of those alien window designs that cast thin pillars of light into the dim area, and he did not feel the slightest bit out of breath. Finally, he came to a place where the left side of the corridor opened into a small stone balcony, looking over a magnificent courtyard. A tall figure, robed in airy linens that seemed to emanate that same, strange golden light as the air itself, stood by the opening and looking as though he had been waiting for Bilbo all along, for he opened his arms in the manner of an old friend greeting another.

"There you are, Bilbo Baggins," he said in kindly fashion, and he sounded as though he was smiling but the warm evening sunlight shining behind him was altogether too bright for Bilbo to see his face. The hobbit was not entirely sure where he should know him from, but he all but radiated the sort of sense of familiarity that Bilbo would normally associate with someone he must have known all his life, even if he could no longer quite remember it.

”Good evening to you, sir,” Bilbo answered politely, coming to a halt beside him and trying to screw up his eyes to see the tall not-a-stranger's face. ”I beg your pardon, but where might I be? I'm afraid I have no memory of how I got here.”

The man laughed, a joyful, rumbling musical sound, and the corridor suddenly seemed to bathe in bright light. He placed a warm hand upon Bilbo's back and beckoned towards the corridor. ”Come with me. There is someone waiting for you a little further on.”

”Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed. ”Well, we mustn't keep them waiting, then.” Unfamiliar though the place may be, he was still a Baggins, and no matter what the gossips over at Hobbiton might have said about his peculiarities and adventuring and other such nonsense, he was a gentlehobbit through and through and making people wait simply would not do, not if he had any say at all over the matter.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind and he brightened, turning to look at the tall man as they walked peacefully along the corridor. ”It wouldn't happen to be Frodo, would it? I appear to have overslept something terrible today and I would very much like to join the good lad for some tea and scones before supper, at the very least.”

The man simply gave his shoulder a firm squeeze and though Bilbo still could not quite make out his face (how on earth could it be so dazzlingly bright there when the only light was coming from those tiny square windows?), he was certain his companion smiled.

They walked silently past airy doorways leading into gardens, towers and courtyards, and past high windows that let large beams of golden light in. Particles of dust danced in the air and glimmered like stars in the evening sky, and such peace as he had never experienced during his long, long years settled over him, and he felt no haste to reach their destination, wherever it lay. Surely Frodo would excuse him a little more delay, seeing as he had already overslept so much? He was much too good a lad to mind such things, Bilbo thought calmly, and he suddenly felt a much stronger breeze coming from ahead of them, and he came to a halt abruptly.

The corridor opened into a wide, airy hall that split into a kind of crossroads around the middle, the pathways going east and west connecting with long, ivy-covered bridges that seemed to cross over some of those very same gardens Bilbo had spied from the window earlier. On their right, the wall opened into a large, exquisitely carved balcony with a stone bench and wide, perfectly smooth stone steps that looked as though they lead down into a lush, shadowy courtyard lined with trees in full bloom. It was as lovely as everything he had seen in that place so far and a delighted sigh was all ready to escape his lips when he turned to look on the left side instead, and he froze on the spot, forgetting to breathe altogether.

The balcony and the stone steps were quite perfectly identical with the right side, only the garden and its sparkling fountains were basking in bright sunlight on this side, its flowers swaying lazily in the breeze. And there, on the stone bench, right beside the archway of handsome marble pillars, sat a figure he hadn't seen in decades but the very image of him had been burned into Bilbo's mind in excruciating detail and there it had remained, festering so much like an old wound throughout all his years that even the peace of Rivendell had not managed to erase.

Even here, far away from the realms of his people, he was every inch the king he had been in life. Wind tossed and tousled his hair; he turned to brush a wind-blown strand away from his face, and the blue eyes of Thorin Oakenshield found his. Bilbo tried to swallow down the sudden dryness in his mouth, certain that he must be dreaming now. He must have nodded off again in the middle of telling Frodo one of his stories, he decided, and the memories must have brought upon this dream.

The tall stranger beside him gave his shoulder another reassuring squeeze and slowly drifted past him, white garments shifting in the wind. Bilbo's eyes followed him for a moment before hovering back to Thorin still looking at him, and when he opened his mouth and glanced after the man again to ask him something, he was nowhere to be seen.

”Bilbo.” The sudden sound of Thorin's voice snapped him back from his reverie. To be just a figment of his imagination or a mere dream image he looked unusually wholesome, happy – in too many of his dreams Thorin came to him bruised and bleeding and pale, even though during his waking moments he tried his hardest to remember the dwarf king as he had been at his best. Yet this was not Thorin as he had ever seen him, not in life or even in his dreams. For one thing, his face was younger, less lined with worry and the burden of responsibility. His hair was rich, shining ebony, and gone were the streaks of silver he had carried before. His beard he kept on a short braid tied with a lovingly crafted silver clasp with his usual ornamental carvings, and though he was not decked with jewels nor armour and no crown rested upon his head he had a regal air about him. He seemed at the very peak of his health and despite the painfully familiar glower of a gaze he was giving him it could not, simply could _not_ , be him, and yet…

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice repeated, with a hint of amused impatience this time, and a small choked noise left Bilbo’s throat.

Oh, goodness gracious.

The hobbit felt his feet move as if on their own, slowly dragging him under the archway with tentative steps. He could not tear his eyes away from the dwarf, dream image or not, his hair still gently billowing in the wind, the golden light reflected on the dark waves. Thorin got up as he approached and his whole being seemed to radiate power, something not even time or weary memories did not seem to diminish. Bilbo stopped a few feet from him, almost afraid to go any closer lest the apparition vanish in a cloud of dust. Really, even for a dream this was much too cruel and he still quite fancied the idea of escaping the scene altogether, but when Thorin extended his hand Bilbo took it between both of his own after only a few seconds’ hesitation and if his hands did tremble something awful, well.

He slowly felt the hand clasped between his shaking ones. Where this hand had been cold and clammy the last he’d held it, now it felt perfectly warm under his touch. Strong, thick fingers, his palms slightly calloused from a lifetime of wielding sword and hammer alike, Bilbo guessed, and while this same hand was probably strong enough to crush his into to dust, it merely allowed itself to be held now. Thorin’s free hand came to rest tenderly atop their linked hands and Bilbo simply closed his eyes and let the sigh he’d been biting back finally escape his lungs. Be it a dream or not, he wanted this moment to burn into his memory for forever.

“Bilbo, look at me.”

His eyes flew open again and yes, Thorin was still there and still warm against his skin, he’d not evaporated or vanished from sight and he looked and felt very solid indeed, though Bilbo did grip his hand a little harder than was strictly necessary, just to make sure. The dwarf looked at him enquiringly, head tilted slightly, and Bilbo finally found his voice again.

“But you’re dead,” he burst out and winced immediately at the words. “You died,” he continued, more softly. “I saw you pass away before my very eyes.”

“Yes,” Thorin replied, his voice as soft as a whisper. His thumb rubbed against the hobbit’s wrist in small circles and Bilbo shuddered violently, wrenching his hands free as though burned.

The dwarf king recoiled immediately, his expression darkening. “Are you –,“ he began, but before he managed to utter another word he'd lurched forwards clumsily as small and surprisingly strong arms had pulled him into a tight embrace. Startled, he carefully wrapped his own arms around the hobbit’s much smaller form when he recognized Bilbo was clearly not about to let go anytime soon, and if his were the slightly awkward touches of someone not used to physical shows of affection, Bilbo paid it no mind. The body pressed against him was very solid and very real and did not evaporate under his touch, and that was all that mattered right now. He inhaled deeply, eyes firmly closed, and this close even his scent was achingly familiar, little though had they touched one another in the past. No bitter tang of blood mingled with his own earthy scent this time, and finally, the tight knot in Bilbo’s chest began to loosen its grip and he breathed more easily again, becoming aware of Thorin softly patting his back and of the steady rising and falling of his chest under Bilbo’s cheek.

Slowly and almost reluctantly they let go of each other, Bilbo’s eyes still raking over the dwarf’s appearance with the air of stunned disbelief. “I thought I would never see you again,” he managed rather hoarsely. “You bled to death in front of me. I watched you being buried!”

A pained expression crossed the king’s face, his jaw tight. “I had abandoned all hope of seeing you again, too, Bilbo. The only thing to ever ease my passing was getting to apologize to you, however briefly, though it was nowhere near enough to make up for my foolish blunders.”

“No, it bloody well wasn’t!”

Thorin blinked, taken aback. “Pardon?”

“You all but throw me out of your sight and cast me away, and the very next thing I know you’ve gotten yourself slaughtered in battle like the foolhardy, stubborn idiot of a dwarf you are!” Bilbo snapped, his face the very image of indignation. “You drag me out of my safe, comfortable home on some foolish quest to slay a dragon, a task that _surely_ would not get your entire company killed in the effort, you get us taken hostage by goblins and woodland elves, and to top it off would rather part with your common sense than with a pile of treasure!”

His voice quivered with poorly subdued anger and he shook his finger at the dwarf, without caring that Thorin took a hasty step back as his voice reached a higher pitch. It felt like a very poor idea to intervene and point out that Bilbo had managed to avoid capture well enough in both occasions, and that his being dragged along to the quest had not strictly speaking been Thorin’s idea to begin with, but he very much doubted the hobbit was in any fit condition to listen. He couldn’t pretend the last remark had not been a low blow, however, and he could not help glaring at Bilbo.

“And do you not think the knowledge that I banished you unjustly haunted me for the longest of times?” Thorin snarled back, slightly paler than before. “Do you not think I regretted it greatly – that I still regret it more than you even realize?”

Bilbo stomped his foot and Thorin started, looking increasingly alarmed at the furious expression the hobbit’s face. “Regretted it? _Regretted it?_ ” he repeated shrilly. “For more than eighty years I grieved you, you complete arse! Eighty years, and you think your regret could repent for that sorrow just like that?”

Thorin looked as though Bilbo had just clubbed him in the head. “Eighty years?”

“Eighty years, you nitwit of a dwarf,” Bilbo sighed in exasperation. “I returned home to grow old in a house that felt emptier than ever before and all the while I nursed the knowledge of your passing like a wound refusing to heal, and when I finally left the Shire to see the Lonely Mountain again age caught up with me on the way and I never managed to get in there. How old do you think I am? I’ve even surpassed the Old Took, and that’s saying something, that is!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, but the hobbit cut across him before he got any further.

“For your knowledge, I just turned one hundred and thirty-two, thank you very much,” he said hotly, though he did feel a small twinge of pride at the impressive number.

Thorin gaped at him and finally said with a faint voice, “Bilbo, you don’t look a day older from when I saw you beside my deathbed.”

“I– what did you say?”

“You have not seen yourself yet, have you?” When Bilbo shook his head, Thorin beckoned him to follow and stepped into the garden. “Come with me. You are not going to listen to me unless I show you.”

They walked to a beautiful fountain delicately hewn of white stone, only a shortly distance from the steps. Its water was bright and clear, the light reflecting from its surface almost blindingly bright to Bilbo’s eyes. He shot an uncertain frown at Thorin, who simply nodded, and Bilbo stepped closer, leaning over the edge to look at his reflection.

His first thought was that he must have fallen and hit his head badly and that this was all part of some rather messed up hallucination. Perhaps he had conducted brain damage falling down from some great height, or perhaps he was in the throes of a particularly cruel fever dream. He blinked and the Bilbo in the water blinked back up at him, Bilbo, who appeared, as far as he could judge, very much the same as he had looked when he’d been at his fifties. His face, much like Thorin’s, was smoother and much less lined and his hair was no longer the white, wispy cloud he’d grown used to, but brown, thick and shiny. He leaned down and reached towards the water only to have the reflection mimic his action and he started, noting once again that his hand was no longer frail and veined.

“Oh. Oh, dear,” he whispered, gaping at his reflection. With all honesty he had known something, or a whole world of somethings, was not quite right in here, but…

Thorin’s reflection appeared beside his own and a warm, large palm grasped his shoulder. “Do you see now?” the dwarf asked quietly and Bilbo could only nod, still staring at his reflection with wide eyed horror. Not remembering going to sleep or how he’d got here, Thorin, this strange place he swore he’d never seen before, Thorin, the absence of all his worldly aches, Thorin, his smooth hands and the waistcoat and Thorin and oh, it all made sense now and he felt his head spinning suddenly when he realized just how very dim he’d been all this time.

“I think I need to sit down,” he moaned feebly and Thorin nodded his understanding, gently steering him back up the steps to the stone bench. Bilbo sat down with shaking legs, burying his face in his hands, and was only half-aware of Thorin’s arm still around his shoulders. He let out a small, shuddering sigh, slowly lowering his hands to rest upon his lap, staring out into the garden with unseeing eyes.

“I don’t think I will be seeing Frodo for tea tonight, after all,” he said sadly, the realization finally sinking in. His eyes stung unpleasantly and he blinked very fast, trying very hard not to wonder if the lad was already aware of his passing, and if he would find any comfort at all in the company of the elves. Surely he would, thought Bilbo, there was hardly any company more calming than that of the elves, and if there existed anything that soothed a mourning heart better than their presence, Bilbo did not know of it.

“Frodo?” Thorin stirred beside him, reminding Bilbo that he was not alone. The hobbit cleared his throat, trying to compose himself.

“My nephew – well, a cousin, really,” he explained. “I adopted him, you see, being the lonely bachelor that I was, and with his parents dying so tragically in a boating accident.” He sighed again, shoulders slumping. “He’s a very good lad, Frodo, a very good lad indeed, and the time he lived with me at Bag End filled my life with such gladness as I had not known in many years. I wonder if he shall miss me, now that I am gone.”

“Surely, he shall,” Thorin said kindly and Bilbo nodded weakly, mostly to show that his words were appreciated. “And do not forget; you will see him again, for sure.”

Bilbo considered this, closing his eyes and simply breathing in the warm air that carried all manner of lovely aromas about it, and the quiet, echoing song in the wind sounded louder to his ears than it had before. “Yes, I think in the light of the current knowledge I assume you are right.”

The dwarf patted his shoulder clumsily even as his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder tensed. “And I am sorry, Bilbo, for the grief I caused you. Eighty years,” Thorin said, his tone carefully neutral. “Eighty years is a long time for such sadness, my friend, much too long for someone with so much life ahead of themselves.”

“And I am sorry, too, for so unfairly accusing you as I did earlier,” the hobbit sighed. “It is not proper of me to speak and act like you wanted to leave in the first place.”

“I wish to ask for your pardon once more, Bilbo,” the dwarf king said, and Bilbo turned to look at him again. ”Am I forgiven?”

Bilbo smiled in spite of himself, taking in the familiar form right next to him, his eyes bright and gleaming in the sunlight, whole and healthy as Bilbo had never thought he’d see him again except in memory. “If I am, so are you, dear friend; so are you. It is truly a wonder to see you again.”

“As it is to see you, Bilbo,” Thorin replied warmly, the creases around his eyes deepening into a smile. “And do not fret, for all is forgiven. I doubt we have waited this long simply to hold grudges against one another.”

“No, we have not,” the hobbit agreed. “And speaking of which, I would very dearly like to know how you came to be here in the first place, if you don’t mind my rudeness.”

“I do not mind. I should like to think that there are a great many questions buzzing around in that clever head of yours.”

Thorin withdrew his arm around Bilbo and leaned back on the bench, resting against a heavily ivy-covered pillar as he rummaged for something in his pocket. Moments later he withdrew an ornate wooden pipe from its depths along with a small leather pouch that, judging by the bittersweet smell, contained some form of pipe weed. Bilbo watched him enviously, pursing his lips.

“Oh, I do wish I had a pipe on me,” he sighed, reaching into his trousers’ pocket out of habit. No sooner than the words had left his mouth his fingers brushed against something hard and he frowned, pulling out a pipe with a long, curved stem and a rounded, beautifully crafted bowl, something that had certainly not been in his pocket earlier. “Oh,” he said simply, eyebrows lifted. “Well, that is most convenient, then.”

Thrusting his hand into his other pocket Bilbo found, much to his delight, a leather pouch and a box of matches. He unfastened the pouch eagerly, sniffed at its contents and let out a small, excited laughter. “Bless my old eyes! Longbottom Leaf! What a joy of joys that this be my first time smoking in years and it be authentic Longbottom Leaf, too.” And with a merry chuckle he stuck the pipe between his teeth and stuffed the bowl with the sincere enthusiasm of a thirsty man finding water for the first time in weeks.

Thorin guffawed at the sight of his merriment, already lighting his own pipe. He inhaled with apparent enjoyment and closed his eyes, relishing the calming sensation spreading throughout his body. Beside him Bilbo smacked his lips and grinned as the familiar sweet scent of the very finest South Farthing pipe weed engulfed him and left him quite enjoyably light-headed. He slumped against the pillars, deciding that he quite liked the scenery of this quiet place. The tranquil splashing of the fountain put him in mind of Rivendell and he agreed that it was not an unpleasant image at all.

“How come you have not smoked in years?” Thorin interrupted his musings after a minute or two. “If I remember correctly, hobbits are very fond of their pipe weed and you were certainly no exception if my recollections aren’t entirely faulty.”

“Oh, that,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Simply a matter of old age, I suppose, and then there is the lamentable fact that elves do not share our fondness for smoking.”

“Elves?” Thorin spat out the word like it had personally insulted him, which it probably had.

“Oh, I resided a large part of my elderly days in Rivendell. I left Bag End to Frodo and my journeys led me there. As you might recall, I was always rather fond of the place, even though the rest of your company did not quite share that fondness.”

“Rivendell,” Thorin said distastefully. “I see.”

“And that reminds me, I think I asked you a question that you’ve yet to answer.”

“And that would have been?”

“Truly, Thorin, between the two of us you’d think it was you who died of old age, the way your memory is working,” Bilbo grinned and leaned out of harm’s way as the dwarf tried to elbow him in the ribs.

“Is every gentlehobbit in the Shire quite as cheeky as you are, Master Baggins?”

“Enough with the formalities or I shall start calling you ‘his majesty’ just to spite you,” the hobbit replied with a wicked smile.

“Oh, terribly cruel, makes a fellow quiver in his boots. Name your terms, burglar, to spare me from this most terrifying of fates.”

It was Bilbo’s turn to aim a sharp elbow at the dwarf’s side. “Oh, you are unbelievable, you are.”

“You've only yourself to blame there, Bilbo.” 

The hobbit chortled, shaking his head and blowing little puffs of smoke from his nostrils before composing a more serious face again. “I believe I wanted to know how it is possible for you to be here, in the same place as I am – wherever our current 'here' happens to be. Now, do not get me wrong, for I am overjoyed to see you again, but I spent my years firmly believing that you dwarves all should go to Aulë, your creator, after death, yet here you are beside me, having a smoke.”

Thorin did not answer immediately. He looked thoughtful, smoking his pipe in silence as he gazed far over the forest of rooftops and towers towards the distant seashore.

“I have been to the Halls of Mahal,” he answered finally, exhaling a whole cloud of smoke as he did so. “There I rested for a time with my kin, for I had much sorrow and much regret still that lingered in my heart, and that is something only a long time of rest can remove. I have seen my grandfather, and my father also.” He looked terribly sorrowful, as though a mountain of burden had been laid upon his shoulders. “And my nephews, too, I saw, for they arrived around the same time as I did, even though the flow of time is not the same in this place. I shudder to think what their mother is going to say when her time comes and she, too, shall join us.”

“Fíli and Kíli, too, were lost from the world much too early,” Bilbo said softly, inhaling from his pipe again. “I think I now understand the worry you felt for them much better; though Frodo came to live with me when he was already nearing adulthood and has always been a remarkably smart lad, I've never quite been able to shake off the habit of worrying over him just a little.”

“You said you adopted him,” Thorin said. “Did you never take yourself a wife, upon returning to the Shire? Never raised a family of your own during your long life?”

“No, afraid not,” he answered with a shrug. “Settling back into my old life was not a matter of mere weeks, Thorin. I'd seen the world and its marvels; I'd made friends and then lost some of them along the way. I returned home to find some of my more unpleasant relatives auctioning away my property, can you believe that? And then,” he smirked, though his voice sounded slightly bitter. “Many seemed to think my business with dwarves and adventuring and all that rather unsavoury. Improper, even, for a respectable hobbit, and you haven't the faintest idea how rumours of the unpleasant kind fly in the Shire.”

He heard the dwarf growl lowly before putting the pipe back between his teeth again. “They did not know what they were speaking of,” Thorin muttered. “If I've ever known a braver fellow than you, I will eat my pipe.”

Bilbo coughed loudly. “You flatter me, Thorin, and the sentiment is appreciated, but your company consisted of many remarkably brave dwarves. Spare some praise for their skills, too, instead of flattering an old burglar who barely knew how to draw a sword from its scabbard.”

“Dwarves are natural warriors, my friend, and while I am not questioning their bravery yours will always rank higher in comparison, I'm afraid. You were nothing but a soft, common hobbit, accustomed to a lifestyle of comforts and peace, never having had the need to even so much as wield a weapon. And yet, _yet_ , you endured the worst of it,” Thorin smiled, obviously enjoying himself and the look of increasing embarrassment on the hobbit's face. “You faced a dragon alone, Bilbo, faced Smaug face to face and lived to tell the tale! Do you still insist on telling me off for praising your remarkable, admirable courage, or do you want me to go on still?”

Bilbo had become a slightly rosy shade in the face and he tried his best to avoid the king's eyes, pretending to be busy with refilling his pipe. Oh, he definitely did need another go at the Longbottom Leaf to defend his honour, or there would be no end to the king's teasing, dead or not.

“Stubborn,” he muttered furiously. “Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves, would you kindly, or I'll be quite happy to leave you here all by yourself!”

“An empty threat if I've ever heard one, Master Baggins,” Thorin grinned, looking at the once again filled bowl of Bilbo's pipe. Bilbo wrinkled his nose, giving him his best grimace and inhaling a large amount of smoke and ash in his haste. He sat coughing loudly in the middle of a large cloud of white smoke for quite some time while Thorin shook with laughter, taking in his red, watering eyes. Bilbo puffed up like a wet hen, still coughing occasionally, which rather ruined the offended glare he was shooting at the dwarf.

“Oh, you are absolutely terrible,” Bilbo finally managed breathlessly. Thorin took a breather from his own pipe and gave him a warm smile in return, and the hobbit could do no more than shake his head exasperatedly. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Whatever you say, Master Baggins.” The glee in his voice was unmistakeable.

They sat in comfortable silence, minutes passing as they smoked side by side, shooting occasional glances at one another and smiling slightly every time their eyes met. The sunlight made him feel pleasantly warm and drowsy, aided by the pipe weed, no doubt, and Bilbo thought he could stay here forever like this, no matter what he had told the king earlier.

“Bilbo?”

“Hmm?”

The dwarf was leaning against the pillar with his eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. His pipe he had laid beside him on the bench. “Was there any particular reason you remained a bachelor?”

“What?” Bilbo said, taken aback.

“Why did you not marry?” he asked again, opening his eyes slowly in the evening light. “If it was loneliness that burdened you so before taking in your nephew, why did you not take yourself a wife?”

His mouth suddenly felt dry again and he licked his lips. “I… I was mourning you, Thorin, as I already told you before.”

“And why would mourning me prevent you from marrying and settling down? I was under the impression that hobbits favoured all the comforts of a home, having a large family included.”

“Well.” Bilbo swallowed, trying not to quail under Thorin’s pensive gaze and good heavens, this was no good, not good at all. “My family was already large enough, you see, what with all of my uncles and aunts – did I ever tell you my mother had nine brothers, good gracious –, the family gatherings were quite a sight, really, try to imagine all my numerous cousins and their children and grandchildren, not that I minded, of course, my grandfather Gerontius was quite rightfully proud and don’t get me wrong here, I do like little ones as much as the next hobbit and no doubt the Shire had its own share of pretty lasses but–“

“Bilbo, you are rambling.”

“– it’s not like I never received any offers, and – oh. Right,” he stopped abruptly and let out a little awkward cough. “Yes. Yes, you are quite right, of course, and I doubt my family matters would be all that interesting to you, being a king and all, and – and I’m just going to stop talking now,” he ended lamely, spotting the bemused look on Thorin’s face.

“Bilbo–”

“Would you look at this fine example of craftsmanship, truly extraordinary, isn’t it?” He turned the pipe around in his hands, suddenly greatly interested in the minuscule carvings around the bowl. “I mean, really, you hardly ever see anything with such attention to detail, you really have to admire–“

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupted his monologue, plucking the pipe out of his hands and setting it on the bench next to his. The hobbit had already opened his mouth to protest but one quick look at Thorin’s face shut him up and he folded his hands on his lap again, trying to look composed and comfortable. “You are babbling far worse than both my nephews whilst intoxicated. Had I known my question would send you into such state of distress I would not have asked. I should have remembered, of course, that you hobbits value your privacy. It was nothing short of tactless of me.” Even though his tone was light, Bilbo recognized a familiar, thunderous look brewing in his eyes.

It only took him a moment to gather that he might have, once again, managed to insult the dwarf somehow. “What? Oh! Oh no, no, not at all, that is, I do not mind you asking, that was not the case at all!”

“Truly?” the king asked sceptically. “I would hate to intrude on your privacy.”

“Truly,” Bilbo replied, smiling weakly. “To tell you the truth, I simply never felt any particular desire to marry, that’s all there was to it. I just did not realize you would be so very interested in the lifestyle of a simple countryside hobbit, being a king and all that.”

“And why shouldn’t I be? Do you think I would not care to know about your life simply because of a title I possess?” He looked very much like he was suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

“That’s not…”

“You shared in on the same perils as I did, Bilbo, a simple countryside hobbit or not. You saw me at my very worst, yet you do not condemn me for it; I do not forget such things easily. I wished for nothing but for you to live a life of happiness, for you truly deserved it.” His expression was sombre again, brows knitting into a tight line, and had Bilbo not known Thorin any better he would have guessed such an expression usually preceded murder.

He started more violently than he probably should have when the dwarf all of a sudden took his hand, holding it between both of his own almost tenderly. “Bilbo,” he began, sounding hesitant. “Bilbo. There is something that I should like to ask you.”

Oh, I am in so much trouble, Bilbo thought desperately, looking that intensely into a fellow’s eyes at such a short distance should not be allowed. “Oh, ask away, anything you’d like to know.” Or holding their hand while doing so, for that matter.

Thorin drew a deep breath, giving his hand a brief squeeze. There was a pause until he spoke again, seeming to choose his words with utmost care. “Had I survived, I would have offered you much more than your share in the treasure, more than just gold and jewels. I was going to ask you to stay.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was going to apologize and ask you to stay in Erebor, but after…” He trailed off, staring at their joined hands absent-mindedly. “I never had the chance, not after the battle. I knew I was dying, and when you finally came to me, I only wished to part from you in friendship.”

“You wanted me to remain?” Bilbo said in a strangled voice. “You were going to offer me a place in your kingdom?”

“That was my intention, yes.”

“Thorin, I–,” Bilbo began, but the dwarf held up his hand to silence him.

“And I often wondered, during my times of regret, what you would have answered. Would you have declined and gladly returned to your peaceful life, to your books, your armchair and your garden, after our quest was over? Or would you have accepted my offer and remained at my mountain, with the company, with me? That question has haunted me for years beyond count.” His eyes wandered uncertainly over Bilbo’s face, as though searching for something. He cupped the hobbit’s cheek in his palm, the touch surprisingly tentative for the dwarf, and Bilbo could only lean against the warmth of his hand.

“And would you like to know the answer still?” he said quietly, never taking his eyes off the other. He could feel the faint tremor of Thorin’s hand against his cheek but the gaze he returned was as steady as ever.

“If only you are willing to give it, yes.”

And whether it was a momentary Tookish burst of courage or simply madness he never knew; he leaned in towards Thorin and closed the distance between them, and his answer was ready on his parted lips as they pressed against Thorin’s. The king tensed under his touch and for only a split-second Bilbo feared that he had completely misunderstood his meaning, a mere split-second until his fingers wound tight in Bilbo’s hair and pulled him closer. Between their parted lips Bilbo managed a breathless ‘does that answer your question?’ and Thorin murmured ’yes’ before kissing him again.

Bilbo felt himself being pulled on the dwarf’s lap, a strong arm curling around his waist. His hands sought and found the thick mane of Thorin’s hair, fingers straying beneath and within it uninterrupted, tangling, pulling, stroking, clawing, and there was something undeniably hungry in the way Thorin would gasp and moan into his mouth when Bilbo pulled his hair just so.

Finally, badly out of breath and dizzy from the combination of pipe weed and kissing they broke apart, sharing one more sloppy kiss before Thorin leaned against the hobbit’s chest in a weary fashion, Bilbo cradling his head gently. He pressed his lips softly on the now hopelessly tousled mop of hair, breathing in the bitter smell of pipe smoke still heavily lingering about him.

“Eighty years,” Thorin whispered against his chest. Bilbo only hummed in answer.

“This could have been mine – ours – eighty years ago, if only I’d not… If we had but–“

“It is yours now,” Bilbo told him firmly and the arms around him tightened almost painfully.

“And never again will I let it go willingly,” came the answer.

“Never,” Bilbo repeated softly, and they remained locked in their embrace for a long time, neither of them speaking.

Most peculiar, the hobbit thought quietly again, peculiar how the sun does not seem to sink any lower on the sky and how the quality of the light remains the same, though surely it should be nightfall already. A gust of wind made the leaves on the trees quiver, adding their faint rustling to the chorus of echoing song – or was it the soft sighing of the waves instead? – and Bilbo's heart lifted. Far away, he thought he could just see the faint outlines of a mountain range, and he wondered if that was where Thorin's kinsmen dwelt.

“Strange, how the sun does not seem to set at all,” he wondered aloud and Thorin chuckled.

“Time holds little meaning here, friend.”

“But surely, you still lay down for the night here, as well.”

“We can, if we desire to do so,” the king replied. “It is not necessary, but many are fond of the habit nevertheless.”

Bilbo hummed his approval, returning to sit beside Thorin and stretching his arms comfortably. “That is one habit I don't think I shall give up very soon, necessary or not.”

Thorin smiled. “Later, I shall show you where I sleep whenever I feel myself in the need of rest.”

They sat there for a long time, talking and laughing quietly among themselves, hand in hand, smoking occasionally, and still the evening stretched on and on, dressing them in its golden glow. To Bilbo it felt like many hours until he could see even the inkling of the first evening stars in the sky, and they were no stars that he had ever seen before. The shadows were slow to deepen, and when they finally left the garden bench, walking across a bridge and through another winding corridor mapped with small, square patches of that dancing evening gold, they could still see where they were going easily enough.

Thorin navigated the long corridors and vast halls with ease, Bilbo following behind him and stopping every now and then to gaze in amazement out of the taller windows and into the grounds; bigger buildings, smaller buildings, small almost hobbit-like gardens and then more elvish ones with tall, hanging ivy and exotic flora, courtyards of stone and golden sand. Everywhere, he could just make out vague shapes of people walking around and vanishing under shadowed doorways, but whether they were Men, Dwarves, or Hobbits, he could not tell from the distance. Eventually, he managed to tear his eyes away from the view and found Thorin waiting for him at the end of the corridor, watching him patiently, and they rounded another corner to find themselves in a spacious room with its walls covered with those beautiful symbols.

Light was more subdued here, for no tall windows were in it, but the tiny squares let in thin beams of light from the setting sun, and at first Bilbo could not see much at all, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. The air felt cooler than outside in the garden, a pleasant breeze blowing from the holes lazily, and this room was not quite as barren as the one he'd awoken in. A writing desk and a chair were in a corner, as well as several bookshelves that towered high towards the ceiling. A bed there was also, a large bed of that same carved quality as the buildings, with what turned out to be luxurious, sleek furs covering it.

Bilbo examined the contents of the shelves curiously, unsurprised to find numerous titles in Khuzdul, and pleased to find several written in Westron as well. He peered up towards the topmost shelves, trying to make out what was stored there, and his fingers quite itched to pull out some books already and leaf through them to his heart's content.

He heard a quiet laugh behind him and turning, found Thorin watching him, seated on the edge of the bed. “I see you are enjoying yourself,” he noted.

“Oh, quite,” Bilbo replied happily, tearing himself away from the shelf and pacing towards him. “So this is your room?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Thorin shrugged, still watching him closely. “We need not keep to just one place here, and I am not fond of staying constantly in the halls of my people.”

“Is it very far? The place where your kin dwells?”

“For my kin and I, no, not truly, if you know the way. We keep to the mountains here much as we did on Middle Earth.”

Bilbo frowned, remembering the mountain range he'd seen earlier, looming far in the horizon beyond the city. “The mountains? They seemed a terribly long way off when I saw them.”

Thorin shook his head, smiling faintly. “They would to you. It is only my kin who can enter the Halls of Mahal, and only my kin can ever find the way there.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, sounding disappointed. “Now that sounds terribly unfair! I so would have fancied to greet your family. Fíli and Kíli, certainly...”

“You need't worry about that, Bilbo. They will be more than glad to leave the Halls to meet you here.” Thorin fixed a long, searching look at him, extending his arm towards him. “Come here. I would hate to think that my books are of more interest to you than I am.”

“Oh, don't be foolish,” Bilbo sighed but couldn't quite hide his smirk as he took his hand and sat down beside him. Thorin lifted his hand to his lips, softly kissing his knuckles, beard roughly scratching his skin.

“Hardly foolish,” he murmured in reply, turning his attentions to the sensitive skin of the hobbit's wrist instead. Bilbo shuddered as he placed a kiss there, then another and another, the scrape of his beard almost ticklish. “I simply want your undivided attention, having been deprived of it for, how long did you say it was? Eighty years?”

“Eighty one,” Bilbo breathed as Thorin pushed his sleeve as high as it would go, continuing to trail little kisses up his arm. The dwarf simply grinned.

“Not going to let me forget that anytime soon, are we?”

“Not a chance.”

A choked sigh left his throat when a warm tongue brushed against his skin and he met Thorin's gaze, smouldering even in the dim light of the room. “Not even if I were to do this?” he asked, his breath hot on his skin.

That was all the invitation Bilbo needed. He sank his fingers into Thorin's hair once more, as eagerly as he had done in the garden, and the kiss that followed was a breathless mess of lips, teeth and tongues. He was barely aware of his hands slipping beneath Thorin's tunic nor of the king's fingers busying themselves on the buttons of his vest, and when exactly had his shirt ended up in a shapeless bundle on the floor? Thorin was quick to shed the last of his clothing and Bilbo caught him to another heated kiss even as the dwarf moved to ease him out of his clothes, slipping off his belt and unbuttoning his trousers as swiftly as he could without seeing what he was doing. With a final tug and groan of deep satisfaction Bilbo felt himself being freed of his trousers and underthings, both of which he was glad to bid farewell as they had become curiously constricting on him. He allowed Thorin to pull them past his ankles and drop them to join the rest of their garments on the floor.

A slight flush crept on his face as he felt the dwarf's keen eyes on him, though it was with no small amount of satisfaction that Bilbo saw colour was high on the king's cheeks as well. With a smile of pure mirth Bilbo closed the distance between them swiftly, his kisses soon abandoning Thorin's mouth to turn his attentions to his jawline and slowly dropping lower to nip at his neck, something which drew a stifled curse from the king. Bilbo kissed and suckled at the sensitive skin over his jugular, generously littering Thorin's skin with small, red marks as he moved towards his collarbone. That drew a growl like the rumble of thunder from the king and hands closed on his shoulders, pushing him down and Bilbo found himself sprawled on his back, his vision suddenly blocked by a whole lot of black hair.

Thorin bent low, kissing his chest, tongue slowly lapping over both of his nipples in turn until Bilbo squirmed, his mouth protesting its current lack of attention and Thorin gave in, devouring his already kiss-swollen lips with unabashed fervour, licking his way inside his mouth until they were the both of them badly out of breath. He pressed one more soft kiss on Bilbo's jaw before sliding back down again despite the hobbit's protests, trailing more soft pecks down his chest and towards his belly button. His nose pressed against the soft curve of Bilbo's belly, large hands roaming over his sides and slowly pushing under him.

“All of you is wonderfully soft,” Thorin whispered against his belly, hands cupped around his bottom. “So very different of the dwarven kin.”

“Oh, keep your opinions to yourself, you,” Bilbo all but gasped as the dwarf mouthed the soft flesh of his stomach, trailing small, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. His beard tickled and scratched the hobbit’s skin, making him squirm all the more.

“You think I am mocking you,” the king accused, giving his backside a tight squeeze so that Bilbo yelped. “On the contrary, I find you lovely, all of you, so marvellously different from my kind, so alluring in your softness, so–“

“One would think that after all your teasing there would hardly be anything _soft_ left in me,” Bilbo hissed between clenched teeth. Thorin chose that exact moment to wrap his hand around his length, his other firmly locked on the hobbit’s waist, holding him in place as he gave him couple of slow, experimental strokes.

“No indeed,” the king said softly, watching his expression closely the whole time. Thorin stroked him again, more firmly this time, causing the hobbit to buck into his hand with an air of desperation. 

"Oh, Thorin, please, _please_ , just hurry up already."

“Patience,” Thorin chided him, but Bilbo snatched a hold of his braids and drew him closer with a powerful yank that drew a surprised sound from the dwarf. Bilbo claimed lips into a dizzying, passionate kiss, sinking his teeth into Thorin's bottom lip until it drew a moan from the dwarf.

“And I'm telling you that I want you, and I am not waiting another eighty years,” he said breathlessly. Another fervent kiss, and Thorin pulled him into a rib-cracking embrace, hugging him close while their lips moved feverishly against one another.

The dwarf broke away from the kiss, lying down next to him, cheek rubbing against the sleek furs. "Come here," he called and Bilbo turned so that they were facing each other. Thorin's hand slowly trailed up the curve starting from behind his knee and up his thigh to fondle his bottom again. They both gasped audibly as he pushed his free hand between them and wrapped it around them both, stroking and rubbing them against one another. Bilbo squirmed, trying to thrust into his hand for more friction but Thorin kept his hold of his bottom, steadying his pace until they both eased into a slow, comfortable rhythm.

Bilbo's hands cupped around his face, peppering his mouth, nose and chin generously with kisses. Hands travelled and roamed freely across bare, warm skin, caressing and teasing alike, the sounds of their mixed breathing loud in the room, and though the evening continued to wane slowly, that golden light never seemed fade entirely. A nightless night closed them in its tender embrace, and later, much later, when they lay side by side in a tangle of limbs, sweat slowly drying on their skins and their breaths settled into a slow, calming rhythm, Bilbo could still make out Thorin's watchful eyes on him. He explored the dwarf's chest with curious fingers, tracing little patterns on his well-furred skin, still damp after their lovemaking.

“Are you content?” Thorin asked quietly, pressing a kiss on his forehead.

Bilbo laughed, fingers lightly tugging the silky hairs until the dwarf groaned softly. “Content? Not until I've had an eighty years' worth of this. But it's a start.”

“That is quite a lot of catching up to do,” Thorin agreed, sounding amused.

“I trust you are up to the task, being the dutiful person that you are?”

The arms around Bilbo tightened possessively, holding him close to his chest. “Wouldn't dream otherwise,” came the answer murmured right next to his ear, and Bilbo let his arm snake itself around Thorin's waist in response.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he recalled Frodo's familiar laughter and the faces of so many friends, another home, that he'd left behind this time, and a vague ache settled in his chest at the thought. He had left his home behind more than once in his lifetime, embarking on this and that adventure, but he had always, or almost always, taken the road back home eventually to find himself standing in front a familiar door, welcoming him back. Well, this was one adventure where there is no road back, Bilbo thought and there was a small sadness in his heart.

“Bilbo?”

Thorin's voice pulled him out of his reverie, the dwarf's arms warm and safe around him, and Bilbo smiled, giving his back a sleepy pat in reply. Whether the road lay yet before or behind him, Bilbo did not know, but the journey he had embarked had swept him on the road just the same, and that was just as well. Not all adventures, he decided, had to lead back the same way to reach their destination; a home, a familiar doorway and welcoming arms.

**Author's Note:**

> There is little to be said about the concept of death in Tolkien's lore, since he left the topic mostly untouched, but we do know certain things. Dwarves believed that their spirits were gathered by Mahal to join the other Children of Ilúvatar in the Halls of Mandos whilst waiting for their different fates, but they have no certain knowledge of what happens to them. As for mortal Men, Big Folk and Little Folk alike, nothing certain is known of their fate beyond death, which leaves a lot up to speculation. I've tried to keep the concept of afterlife rather vague in this fic, hopefully leaving room for readers' interpretations. It did feel important, however, to single out the Halls of Mahal as a place specifically for the Dwarves apart from the other races, as the story of their creation differs from that of Ilúvatar's other Children.


End file.
